


Bingo Prompt: "You Thought This Was a Hangover?"

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker Friendship, Sick Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sickfic, Strained Friendships, Tim Stoker Lives (The Magnus Archives), Whump, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:15:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27478663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: Tim takes Jon out drinking as they try to rebuild their friendship and Tim's trust. Jon mistakes a migraine for a hangover.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 167





	Bingo Prompt: "You Thought This Was a Hangover?"

When Tim had texted Jon on Sunday only to receive dramatic pleas for the sweet release of death, he’d laughed. Jon had always been a lightweight--and Tim had reminded him as much the entire time they’d been at the bar--but in his desperate attempt to rebuild in one night a bridge that had taken months to burn, Jon had gone a little harder than he normally would. When they’d gone out with the other researchers, Jon had usually been content to sip a hard cider or a glass of scotch (and usually ended up endearingly tipsy afterward). Saturday, however, he’d allowed Tim to peer pressure him into three shots over the course of the night. 

Tim had tried to convince himself that he’d done it because they were trying to let loose a little rather than because when, at the end of the night, when he’d asked about Jon’s kidnapping by the Circus, Jon’s discovery of NotSasha, Jon’s horrifying new ability to pull statements from people who do not want to give them; that he’d believed him mostly because Jon was too far gone to come up with a lie. 

Well. If Jon’s able to manipulate people into telling him whatever he wants to know, Tim won’t feel guilty for doing the same. 

Tim’s amusement turns into pity as Jon’s hangover appears not to lessen with the passing of the day, as every time he texts to ask how he’s holding up, Jon is either sleeping or trying to fall back asleep. It’s not as if Tim hadn’t felt the effects of their night of debauchery, but he’d had a rough morning, popped some paracetamol and had some scrambled eggs, and felt almost human again by a little after noon. Jon hadn’t been so lucky, but he’d denied needing anything when Tim had begrudgingly offered after he’d mentioned he wasn’t able to hold down anything for dinner, so Tim had said “goodnight” and gone to sleep. 

The next day, Martin is already antsy by the time Tim walks in ten minutes late, as usual. 

“Good morning, Martin,” Tim greets. “Have a good weekend?” 

Martin nods. “Uh, yes, actually. Didn’t do much. Very relaxing. What about you?”

Tim sets his jacket down slowly. “For someone who had a relaxing weekend,” he begins, “you don’t seem very relaxed.” 

“It’s nothing,” Martin reassures. “Just--Jon’s not in, yet. And he’s always early.” 

Tim winces. “I might have broken him.” 

“Broken him?” Martin asks anxiously. “What does that mean? Did you--did you fight?” 

“What? No!” Tim laughs. “I took him out for drinks on Saturday. Poor little fella had a nasty hangover yesterday. He might be a little slow today, since he spent most of the day yesterday either asleep or throwing up.” 

It’s Martin’s turn to wince. “Oh. How are you doing?” 

Tim pats his chest bracingly. “I’m a tank, Marto; I’m fine!” 

Before Martin has a chance to retort, Jon walks through the door, looking… worse for wear, to say the least. Tim might have laughed at the sunglasses and heavy coat if he wasn’t so pale and obviously pained. He’s leaning heavily on his cane, something he normally doesn’t need so early in the morning unless it’s raining or particularly cold, and moving slowly even despite it. 

“Oh, damn it,” Tim curses. “Jon! Go home!”

From the doorway, Jon glares. “Good morning, Tim,” he greets. His voice is gravelly, like he’s swallowed rocks, or, more likely, he’s been sick this morning. “Martin.” When he tries to pass them, Martin stands in the way. 

“You’re not seriously planning on working like this,” he says. “You--sorry, but you look awful.” 

Jon rolls his eyes. “Well, I did it to myself,” he says. “And I’m fine.” 

Tim scoffs. “Right. You’re fine. Have you managed to hold anything down since we last chatted?” 

“That’s--personal, and hardly an appropriate question for your boss—”

“I haven’t clocked in yet, and neither have you.” 

Jon is, luckily, too tired to argue. “Cup of tea, this morning. Now, I’m going to get to work, and I suggest you both do the same.” He brushes past the two of them briskly, punching his time card before stomping off into his office and shutting the door. 

Tim spares a glance to Martin, whose face reflects a nervousness that Tim refuses to show. 

“What should we do?” Martin asks, and Tim rolls his eyes. 

“What do you mean? What is there to do?”

“We could--I don’t know, force him to go home, I guess?”

Tim almost laughs. “Hasn’t the man been kidnapped enough times?” 

“That’s not funny, Tim,” Martin scolds, and Tim is pretty sure he’s right. 

“The way I see it, best thing we can do for Jon is just to stay out of his way, today.” 

As much as that’s never been Martin’s forte, particularly where Jon is concerned, he nods, anyway. 

Tim breaks his own rule about an hour later when he walks past Jon’s office and notices that the light is off. He knows Jon’s still in there--Tim sits near enough to Jon’s desk and has been concentrating on so little work today that there’s no way he’d have missed him leaving, not to mention that Martin has been watching the door like a wild cat stalking its prey, eager to pounce on Jon with tea and a snack as soon as he’s in his sight. 

The lack of light is concerning. There’s no getting around that, as there are very few explanations for it. Jon is known for napping at the Institute, sure, but he’s got a cot in a spare room somewhere for that, Tim knows, and besides, that’s reserved for when Jon has been working for so many consecutive hours that he can no longer even think about getting home. So early in the morning, it sends a spike of anxiety through him, and he decides to risk the consequences of disturbing the beast. 

He knocks on Jon’s office door sharply three times with his knuckle. “Hey, Boss,” he calls, “you in there?” 

“Come in,” Jon says, though it sounds strained. When Tim pushes open the door, Jon flinches, groaning, so he shuts it behind him. After giving himself a moment to adjust to the dark, Tim looks around the office: a bit of a mess, as usual, but with the concerning addition of Jon sitting, head resting face-down on folded arms, at his desk, making no attempt to look busy even for Tim. 

“Sleeping on the job?” Tim teases anxiously, and Jon braves the low light of the room against his eyes to look up and glare. 

“Just taking a moment,” he defends. “The light.” 

Tim frowns. “Have you taken your meds? Do you have them with you?” 

Jon looks confused. “What meds?” 

“Well, you’re having a migraine, right? Sounds like a bad one. You used to have, I’m not sure, rescue meds for that sort of thing, or am I crazy?”

Jon hesitates. “No, no; I still--I thought--it’s just a hangover?” 

Tim almost laughs out loud, not humorously. “You thought THIS was a hangover?” 

“I don’t do much drinking,” Jon mutters defensively. Tim sighs. 

“Right. Well, come on, then. I’m driving you home. You’ll have some medicine and a cuppa, maybe Google what a hangover is once you can look at a phone screen again. Sound good?” 

Jon huffs a laugh, but doesn’t argue, a testament to how bad the pain must be still, even after a whole day. 

God, he’s an idiot, Tim thinks. 

The fact that Jon doesn’t argue solidifies a lot more of his trust than the night of drinking had. 


End file.
